


Paris, 1844

by vigilantejam



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014), Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace (TV 2016)
Genre: Anatole observes much more of Athos's melancholy aspect than one would expect because SHUT UP, Beards (Facial Hair), Biting, Blood, Bloodplay, Blow Jobs, Breathplay, Bruises, Canon Compliant, Come Sharing, Cunnilingus, Doppelganger, F/F, F/M, Face Slapping, Fantasizing, Finger Sucking, Fingerfucking, Fivesome - F/F/M/M/M, Foursome - F/F/M/M, Frottage, I brought this on myself, M/M, Masturbation, More Wine, Multi, Narcissism, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Pain, Penis In Vagina Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Canon, Rimming, Roleplay, Scratching, Sibling Incest, Simultaneous Orgasm, Teasing, Threesome - F/F/M, Threesome - F/M/M, Voyeurism, Wine, but refuse to let him be as revolting as he wants to be, in which I blame the protagonist for my stylistic failings, more headcanons than strictly necessary, more or less I mean it's not entirely outside the realms of possibility, no one made me do this, to varying degrees and broadly in that order but who's keeping count, why didn't anyone stop this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2016-02-17
Packaged: 2018-05-21 08:30:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6044950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vigilantejam/pseuds/vigilantejam





	Paris, 1844

Anatole sits up in his bed, a mountain of soft white pillows supporting his shoulders. His attention swims away and back to the newspaper until he gives up and folds it in half, placing it on the night stand. He turns down the lamp although the room barely darkens. Through the window opposite, the sunset is almost complete. A thin stripe of orange, broken by the rooftops, sits on the horizon below a band of blue and a blanket of velvet violet night sky. The full moon is almost as luminous as the day's sun. The delicate open curtains frame Anatole's view, and swell in and out with a breeze that doesn't reach his face.

 

Anatole throws some of the pillows to the side, wriggling himself down between the clean and oxygen-scented sheets in an awkward but practised manoeuvre. Not long after he has settled, it was never very long after, Helene slips in beside him, her nightdress as fine and sheer as the dancing curtains. Her breath ghosts over his cheeks as he closes his eyes. The mattress dips behind him as they are joined by Dolokhov, followed as always by the mingled sweet-sour smell of gunpowder, perspiration, and red wine. They both drape their legs and arms about Anatole, and he breathes deeply as fingers trace over his shoulders and ribs. He savours their warmth and comfort, the companionable weight of their easy proximity.

“What pleases you today, brother?” Helene whispers, her lips quirked into a devilish smile millimetres from his own. He claims her with a gentle kiss that deepens as he brings his hands up to cup her face and leans his body closer against hers, fitting together as perfectly as they always did. For as long as he can remember.

Dolokhov's fingers dig impatiently under his ribs.

“We haven't forgotten about you, Fedya,” Anatole says and laughs, twisting around to press his forehead against that of his friend. Dolokhov's moustache scratches at his jaw as the man brushes rough kisses across Anatole's face.

“You know, I thought of you both today,” he says, extracting himself from their attentions. He slips out of the sheets and stands over them on the bed, his shadow falling over them as he wobbles slightly on his feet. His long nightshirt sways with the movement and the material skims his knees. “There was a man and woman, and they were a bit like you. Or you were like them. I'm not sure which.”

Helene and Dolokhov merely watch him, expressions open and smiles neutral, as if waiting for instructions. Anatole bows, low and theatrically, an arm flung out to the side to keep his balance.

“Le Comte de la Fėre,” he announces and gestures at Dolokhov. “A man who has renounced his title! A soldier of honour. And his beautiful wife,” a sweep of his arm indicates Helene. “Scheming and devastating. Once so completely in love, they are torn apart by lies, truths, and misunderstanding. Now they are enemies, but could the old flame still be burning? I think it might.”

Anatole jumps down from the bed and settles himself into the chaise under the window. He watches as his lovers get into character, indulging him as they always do. 

“To think I ever respected you,” Dolokhov begins, a fire starting in his blue eyes.

“To think I ever cared,” Helene spits back, and with a flying hand strikes Dolokhov in a flat slap that sings through the room.

 _Not quite right,_ Anatole thinks, _but close enough._

He presses the heel of his palm across his groin as he watches his sister and his best friend exchange further barbs before they resume the usual routine of kissing and caressing each other, their eyes flashing over to Anatole now and then, ensuring he is still happy with their performance. The outline of his cock is clearly visible through the material of his nightshirt, but Anatole nods his encouragement anyway, his eyes dark and half closed in pleasure.

 

“You know I don't really look like that,” A hand on his shoulder startles Anatole, and he spins around to see the object of his fantasies circling behind the chaise.

“Milady de Winter,” he blusters, springing to his feet. “Do forgive me.”

He bows from the hips and looks up at her through his eyelashes. He hopes Helene and Dolokhov have noticed and also stop to pay their respects. He has no such luck. Milady looks over the bedfellows and her mouth curls into a small sneer as she sits on the chaise, pulling Anatole down beside her.

“They like you, not each other,” she observes. “They do this for you.”

Anatole grins. “Isn't it wonderful?”

“I find it more rewarding to engage in that which you desire most,” Milady answers coolly.

Her gown is a luscious green with black embroidered details. It falls about her in thick folds, the material shines like jewels where the light touches it, and looks as deep as the forest where it is in shadows. Anatole wants badly to run his fingertips over every inch, wants Milady to look into his eyes again and see that they have much the same emerald quality. But he keeps his hands to himself, just as hers are folded primly in her lap, gloved in black leather, and her eyes stay on Dolokhov and Helene.

The pair have pushed the sheets down to their feet, leaving them exposed in the moonlight and the gaze of the voyeurs. The purity of Helene's skin perfectly blends with her nightdress and the expensive sheets. Dolokhov's underwear, however, is yellowed and a little torn and his torso is sturdy but scarred, war-marked with imperfections.

“She doesn't look like me,” Milady repeats and Anatole has to concede.

“Forgive me, Milady, but she is the most beautiful woman I know. To me there is no one better to play you,” he dips his head so he can once more gaze at her through his thick eyelashes. “Although she pales in comparison to the real thing.”

Milady gives a soft sigh, accepting the flattery but also deriding the flatterer.

“My husband, however,” she continues, narrowing her eyes at Dolokhov. “You appear to have captured his likeness quite admirably.”

There is a grunt from the shadows by the door and Anatole turns to see a man leaning against the door frame, his features obscured in darkness, his arms folded across his chest.

“You'll have to excuse Athos,” Milady says, leaning conspiratorially towards Anatole's ear. “Not especially the social type. Nonetheless, we both appreciate your invitation.”

“Fyodor,” Anatole says, raising his voice so Dolokhov pays attention. “You can stop playing. Let's all be ourselves tonight.”

Dolokhov grins and turns back to Helene, lifting her with one arm as he rolls under her. She straddles him easily and as she laughs the long dark waves of her hair shake over her bare shoulders, the pale curves like marble in the silver light.

“Tell me again how they don't like each other,” Anatole says to Milady. “He just doesn't like doing what I say. But he will do it anyway.”

 

As if suddenly aware they have company, Helene stops her flirtatious giggling at looks around at their guests. She flinches a little under the gaze of Milady, and when she turns to the man in the shadows she lets out a small gasp. Her eyes snap back to the man between her thighs and she studies him a moment before looking again towards the door.

“You there,” she trills. “Let me look at you.”

As the man steps into the cool blue-silver light Anatole feels his pulse quicken. Indeed the likeness is striking.

“Why, Fedya,” Helene says, somewhat nervously. “He could be your twin.”

 

Dolokhov pushes himself up on his arms to get a look, then squirms out from under Helene and vanishes down beside the bed. He reappears having pulled his army uniform tunic about him. It looks much less than dashing falling open over his underwear, Anatole thinks. It looks debauched. Dolokhov turns his back, and Anatole can't help but crack a smile. Now the jacket makes his shoulders look enormous and powerful. When Dolokhov faces them again he has picked up a bottle of wine and a glass from the dresser. He pours, the liquid pulsing out in dark little waves, a slick wet noise as each one hits the glass until it is full. His eyes locked on the stranger, Dolokhov tips his head back and throws the entire cupful of wine down in one go. He makes a hissing sound of satisfaction and pours another helping.

“My friend.”

“Athos.”

“ _Athos_ , my friend,” Dolokhov says, placing the bottle back on the dresser and rounding the bed, advancing on his doppelgänger. “Won't you have a drink?” 

He carefully turns the glass so the same place he drank from rests against Athos's parted lips and he squeezes a hand to where Athos's neck meets his shoulder as he tilts the vessel. Athos opens his throat to the wine, letting it flow into him, drinking it all down until the glass is empty. Dolokhov flashes his teeth triumphantly and throws the glass over his shoulder. The sharp music of the shatter gives each of them a moment to catch a breath none had been aware they were holding. No one turns to look at the broken pieces.

“Oh, I like you,” Dolokhov says, eyes wide and bright like a wild dog.

He closes the gap between his face and the musketeer's until they are almost nose to nose. His hand stays heavy on Athos's shoulder, his forefinger stroking just above the collar of Athos's heavy leather doublet, tickling at the ends of his hair. “Fyodor Dolokhov, at your service.”

His breath is hot and thick and sweet and his voice drips with promise. Athos finally unfolds his arms and pushes himself away from the door frame. Dolokhov moves with him and tilts his head as Athos leans forward to whisper in his ear. Anatole can't make it out, but suddenly their contact is broken and Dolokhov has drawn a dagger and is pointing the blade at Athos's throat. The polished metal catches the moonlight and projects a strip of white across Athos's face. It throws contrast over his features, bringing out the structure of his nose and cheekbones. Anatole notices the light sprinkling of freckles under his eyes, another thing he shares with Dolokhov. Athos's eyes flutter shut for just a little longer than a blink, eyelashes splayed over the freckles with a beauty that makes Anatole draw sharp breath. When Athos opens his eyes again there is a small flash as he meets Dolokhov's determined gaze, and then the cold composure is back.

“It's no good,” Milady says, her voice raised for Dolokhov's benefit. “You can't threaten to kill a man who doesn't care about his death.”

Anatole tenses at the word before Milady places a soothing hand on his arm and he unwinds again. The tension is still stretched across Dolokhov's shoulders, however, and the man's arm shakes as he raises the dagger to press it against Athos's cheek. The blade is sharp and cuts a short but deep line in Athos's flesh with little resistance.

The air goes out of the room and there is not a sound but the beating of Anatole's pulse in his ears. 

 

Dolokhov's breathing turns shallow as he refuses to break from Athos's gaze, even though he must be aware blood is running down the man's face and across the dagger. His skin prickles and he once more steps into the space between them. He moves his dagger over to the scar that twists Athos's lips in a reflection of his own and permits himself a moment of congratulation as again something briefly flashes in the Athos's eyes. He presses the flat of the blade to Athos's mouth and this time allows himself to look as Athos slides his tongue out between his lips just enough to lick his own blood from the knife. The corners of Athos's mouth turn slightly upwards and Anatole watches the smile reach up to form creases around his eyes.

Dolokhov finally growls low and quiet and drops the dagger. It clatters forgotten to the floor as Dolokhov covers Athos's mouth with open hungry kisses, licking the man's blood from his lips. Desperate noises Anatole is quite sure he has never made before escape Dolokhov as he grabs at Athos's doublet and the scarf around his neck. His hands move up and close at either side of Athos's jaw. Dolokhov covers the small wound with his mouth and applies suction until the blood flows over his tongue. He pulls back and grins like a wolf, his teeth and lips shining deep and sinful red. There is a predatory fire in his eyes, determined and desirous. Athos pulls his scarf away and lets it float to the floor as he undoes the fastenings at his collar. He tilts his head back, and takes a few steps backwards until he rests against the wall. Dolokhov moves easily with him, and Anatole sees him work a thigh between Athos's and grind up against him. Dolokhov is wasting no time getting to Athos's throat with kisses and scrapes of his teeth. His lips burn with the friction of the blunt unshaven hairs that decorate Athos's soft and pale flesh. Dolokhov smears red streaks over skin and cleans them up with long strokes of an eager tongue. Athos brings a hand up to tangle in Dolokhov's hair, closes his eyes and for the first time, Anatole thinks, he looks relaxed. It's over in a moment as Athos opens his eyes again to smile at Milady, who is watching him closely, and then turns his gaze over to Helene on the bed, who looks bored.

 

“Come over here, my love,” Anatole croons, beckoning her to the chaise.

Helene slips languidly from the bed, moving like liquid as she pours herself into her brother's lap. She lifts her feet and lays her legs over Milady's thighs, wiggling her toes as they appear at the edge of her nightdress. She drapes an arm across Anatole's shoulders and draws the other around her head, scooping up her hair and letting it cascade back down over her shoulders.

“My sister, Helene Bezukhova,” Anatole introduces, and lets the pride shine in his voice and eyes as he looks at her.

“Exquisite,” Milady says, barely above a whisper, and slips a gloved hand under the hem of Helene's nightdress, resting lightly on her ankle.

Helene giggles in receipt of the compliment, and while others might think her coy, Anatole knows better and recognises the challenge in Helene's eyes as she parts her legs just a touch. The movement of her hips rolls against Anatole's crotch and he breathes a sigh into Helene's hair. In a swift movement, Milady pushes her hand up under Helene's nightdress and although Anatole cannot see what happens Helene's sudden yelp of delight and surprise leaves little to the imagination. The challenge has been met.

Milady withdraws and presses closer to Anatole on the chaise. She brings her hand to her face and inhales deeply before taking the middle finger between her teeth and pulling the leather glove away. A light breeze catches and Anatole smells jasmine from outside alongside the sweet leather and the unmistakable touch of his sister's sex. He's already half hard from watching Athos and Fedya's antics and now he grows more, aching beneath Helene as she shifts position once again to reach out and take the glove from Milady. She wafts it past Anatole's face, and Anatole catches her wrist before she can strike him with it.

“Don't you dare,” he says playfully.

But Helene just laughs and claps the glove over Anatole's mouth, kissing him through it. He wraps his arms about Helene and pulls his face back just enough to make the glove drop between them before he claims her lips again. He only remembers Milady when Helene's breath hitches and she squirms again in his lap. Anatole looks down to see that Milady has once again reached beneath Helene's nightdress, pushing the material up to the knee, and she is tracing long slow circles and patterns over Helene's skin with her newly naked fingertips. Her hand creeps fractionally higher and the virginal white cotton folds about her wrist. Helene hums and moans as her eyes connect with Milady's. She is clinging to Anatole's chest, tracing her own patterns and skimming over his nipples through his nightshirt and Anatole imagines he can feel what Milady is doing to her too. Her breathing becomes more erratic and Anatole holds her tighter as she writhes against him.

“Sshh,” he whispers hot and wanting into her ear.

She is gasping now, and plants one foot to the floor to push her hips towards Milady. Anatole thinks their guest must be circling her fingers on the most sensitive skin of Helene's thigh, not a hair's breadth from where Helene really wants. Perhaps a light scraping of fingernails or a gentle squeeze. It's undeniably something delicate. Nothing makes Helene thrash and cry more than someone treating her like porcelain and taking their time over it. Helene growls low again, fighting Anatole's strong embrace, desperate for a firmer touch. But she will not beg, Anatole knows that much. She never has.

 

“She's almost ready for you, Athos,” Milady says, although still her eyes do not leave Helene's face.

The two men in the doorway look over and Dolokhov breathes out a laugh of surprise.

“I'm not sure I've ever seen her like that,” he comments and turns back to Athos. “Your wife has a talent for undoing people,”

“She does,” Athos agrees, and finally allows Dolokhov to push the heavy leather doublet from his shoulders. 

It falls behind them and there is the briefest of contact between them as Dolokhov slides his hands into the open front of Athos's black undershirt. Dolokhov's hands are warm and firm at his sides, and Dolokhov can feel the unfamiliar lines and smudges of scars they do not share. Anatole can practically hear Dolokhov's consideration of the dagger and broken glass and how he might add to the design, but Athos quickly slips from him and gathers Helene up from her prone position on the chaise, into his arms and over to the bed.

 

Anatole is left dizzy by the sudden pressure lifted from his lap as his erection points out proud beneath the light covering of his nightshirt. He barely registers Helene's wail at being pulled away from Milady's hands. It is her sudden and deep-throated cry of pleasure that makes him look up to the bed. He sees that Athos has thrown himself between her legs and his face is nuzzled there. One of Helene's legs wrapped about his shoulder, and the other splayed out to the side, where he is massaging the inside of her knee with his thumb. Helene, as is so often her wont, is not being quiet. Her head is flung back with the arch of her spine as a stream of encouragement, appreciation, and blasphemy falls from her mouth.

 

Dolokhov approaches the chaise and clears his throat, offering a hand to Milady. She takes it and rises to her feet. She pulls the leather glove from her other hand as Dolokhov unclasps a fastening at her collar. The top section of her gown, comprising the shawl and sleeves comes away and Dolokhov gathers it in his arms. Milady watches him like a hawk, suspicious of the man who looks so like her husband whilst sharing none of his demeanour. Dolokhov makes a show of pressing the material to his face, inhaling deeply and rolling his eyes back in ecstasy. When he looks back at her he is all teeth and laughter that Milady can't help but return. She curtseys to him, and he bows, stepping back to let her pass as she moves to the bed. Anatole watches with amusement as a decorum he doesn't usually have stops Dolokhov reaching out to touch her as she sways by him. Her bare shoulders and arms are milk white and as shapely as Helene's, although Anatole suspects the assassin spy to be stronger, and the tight bodice of her gown irresistably displays her ample assets. Dolokhov looks at Anatole open mouthed and eyes wide, the expression of a suddenly lucky man on an unexpected winning streak.

He carefully places Milady's garments on the chaise and then drops to his knees, his determination and insatiability returning as he pushes his hands up Anatole's nightshirt, encouraging him to remove it. Anatole complies and enjoys the chill of the air across his bare chest. He looks down to catch Dolokhov licking his lips before taking Anatole's prick in his mouth. Any coolness is lost as the familiar heat engulfs him and stirs his blood. Anatole sighs and stretches. Dolokhov sets a slow steady rhythm of pressure with his tongue and light suction and movement with his mouth, and Anatole rolls his hips in time. He rubs a hand over his chest, lightly pinching at his sensitive nipples.

 

Milady has mounted the bed and she pulls at Athos's hair to bring him to her. Helene complains at the loss of contact but when her eyes catch Anatole's over Milady and Athos's kiss, she is grinning wickedly. There is something about that kiss, Anatole thinks, it is at once regretful and hopeful, heartbroken and forgiving. He may have accurately arranged his features when he had Dolokhov portray him, but he missed the melancholy.

_When you've lived with loss for so long, even its return cannot expel the sadness._

When they break apart their faces linger close for a moment in silent communication. Athos then turns back to Helene, and helps her out of her nightdress, the barely-there cotton sliding up her slender body and over her head. She kisses Athos herself, although with much less meaning. Milady lays down next to her, and with a gentle guiding hand on Helene's chin, she guides her away from Athos and into her own kiss. Their hair is a matching dark brown, their skin like cream, and their lips defined in tempting red.

Anatole watches as Helene fights to control their kiss, her hand cupping around Milady's jaw to her neck, angling her to allow further access to her mouth, all tongue and crushing bruising pressure until Anatole hears a hiss and knows his sister has her teeth digging into Milady's bottom lip. Anatole thinks it's unlikely that happens often to Milady de Winter. He thinks it is more often she who delivers a bite. Athos kneels over them and takes the fingers of his left hand into his mouth and coats them with saliva, then resumes where his tongue had left Helene. From his seat on the chaise Anatole can see the moment Athos pushes bluntly into her and her hips lift as she curves off the bed. Athos dips his head then, burying under the layers of Milady's skirts as he continues to work Helene on two fingers. Soon Milady is gasping in time with Helene, their moans and grasps at the sheets coming at the same time. Anatole realises that whatever Athos is doing with his tongue is duplicated with the circles and flicks his thumb makes over Helene's clitoris. The women's backs arch in unison and Anatole sees their fingers twined and gripped together between their bodies. A blush is creeping up Helene's face from her throat, and Anatole feels himself getting hotter as Dolokhov increases the pace around his cock.

Dolokhov has the base of Anatole's prick held firm in his hand as his mouth and tongue play their tricks around the head. Anatole fists his hand in Fedya's hair, just enough to cause the man a little pain. The groan around his cock makes Anatole see stars. He looks down and for a moment plays with the idea that it is Athos's lips stretched around him while Dolokhov pleasures the women. The two switch places again and again, the same rough military hands working at his shaft and the same hot and slick mouths taking him in. It is only the curve of a smile Anatole can feel that lets him know it really is Fedya between his legs.

Helene is close, Anatole can tell. She has stopped crying out and instead is gasping brokenly. Tell tale tension is building in her thighs as it is in his, and she digs her fingers into the soft flesh of her belly. Anatole hears the familiar deep strangled inhale and as Helene comes his cock hits the back of Dolokhov's throat and he unspools. Dolokhov sucks and laps him all the way down, greedily swallowing until Anatole has to push him away. He can hear Milady's climax too, and uses it to guide himself back to the room.

 

Athos emerges from Milady's skirts, his hair plastered to his face with sweat. He sucks his fingers clean then swipes the back of his right hand over his mouth. His chest rises and falls with panted breaths and his jaw falls slackly open, his lips shining. Dolokhov barks with laughter, and Athos barely has time to turn at the sound before the man is on him again. Dolokhov drags him from the bed and pushes his tongue into Athos's mouth, sharing the taste of their lovers. Anatole is familiar with his sex and wine flavoured affections. 

Helene is coming back to herself, still trembling with pleasure as she looks on. “I always knew he was an extraordinary narcissist,” she says, raising her eyebrows at her brother. “He can't put him down.”

Dolokhov struggles with undressing while remaining pressed as close to Athos as he can. He shrugs off his officer's tunic and pushes down his underwear, dancing from foot to foot as Athos's tight grip stabilises him. One hand claws into Dolokhov's hip bone, and the other a fraction is away from closing around his throat. Dolokhov's hands go to the buttons on Athos's breeches, and the fingers are gone from his waist as Athos bats his hands away. Dolokhov always asks twice and this time is no different, and his hands are at the buttons again. This time Athos catches his wrist with long fingers that close around it like a manacle. Athos squeezes until the bones shift and Dolokhov hisses.

“That's not for you,” he says firmly, and increases the pressure on the soldier's neck.

His blue eyes hold firm until Dolokhov assents, dropping his gaze in submission. Athos lunges and covers Dolokhov's mouth with his own. He's kissing the air out of him and Anatole can see the moment the Fedya's knees buckle and he begins to swoon. 

Helene pushes herself upright against the pile of pillows at the head of the bed. Athos steers Dolokhov over to her and lowers him down until his head rests in Helene's lap. She giggles at them both, a light musical chirp as she pushes her hands through the man's hair and wraps her legs around his torso, ankles crossing over his chest. Athos slides down Dolokhov's body, careful not to touch his cock too much, just a fleeting kiss to leave the man straining against his attractive restraints.

 

Milady, who had like Anatole been looking on with amusement and arousal, retrieves the bottle of wine from the dresser and brings it to Athos's lips. He takes a long drink before lowering his mouth to Dolokhov's hole and pushing into it with his tongue. Dolokhov pulls up his knees and spreads his legs shamelessly, a loud groan falling from him. Milady is there to catch it, her tongue tracing a soft line over Dolokhov's lips. Conforming Anatole's suspicions, she bites hard on the lower one and Dolokhov bucks and cries out. Milady takes a drink for herself, then another which she kisses into Helene's mouth, purple rivulets running down her chin. Anatole springs up from his place to lick the wine from Helene's skin and the four of them exchange kiss after kiss as Athos goes to work with his fingers.

 

Anatole splays his hand over Dolokhov's chest and feels the slow rumble that starts there and escapes through Dolokhov's mouth in a long moan as Athos pushes into him. Dolokhov's head is stretched back, his neck long and exposed between Anatole and Helene. His expression is that of pure yielding bliss and although Anatole has often thought of him as a demon, in this moment he looks angelic. Anatole presses his fingernails into Dolokhov's sternum and the man's eyes open, almost fully black with his blown pupils, the narrow band of blue is still dazzling. Dolokhov rolls his head up, looks past his hard and leaking cock twitching against his belly, and sees his reflection dipped down between his legs, working over him with hand and tongue. He growls and beckons to Anatole.

“Did I ever look so beautiful, Kuragin?” he asks between gasps.

“More so, Fedya,” Anatole purrs close to Dolokhov's mouth. “It has taken your double to even come close.”

The groan gets caught in Dolokhov's throat and comes out broken as he lets his head fall back again. Anatole nibbles and licks down the exposed line of his throat. He draws his fingers up in a deep scratch from Dolokhov's chest, and when they reach his lips he opens to receive them. Dolokhov's teeth close gently around Anatole's knuckles, holding in fingers in place over Dolokhov's tongue. Not for the first time, Anatole applauds the diligent service of his friend.

 

Milady extracts herself from Helene's kisses and gathers up her skirts around her hips. Anatole admires the long graceful lines of her legs and with his free hand manages to caress a cupped hand along her calf. She smiles at him and holds him in a penetrative gaze as she settles over Dolokhov's cock and letting her skirts fall, lowers herself down onto him. Anatole feels his stomach tighten as Milady's eyebrows draw together and her lips fall open. Around his fingers, Dholokov's teeth tighten as his tongue vibrates in a hum.

Milady's eyes fall closed as she sighs and grinds down. Athos comes up for air and pulls Milady to him. She leans back until she is pressed back to chest with her husband. Athos still has his fingers buried deep within Dolokhov and his arm moves in time with the roll of Milady's hips. Anatole's fingers fall from Dolokhov's mouth as the man shouts a great number of curses on deities Anatole has never heard of.

Athos hooks his chin over to rest against Milady's collarbone and Anatole sees a glimpse of white as the man drags his teeth over the ribbon at her neck. His mouth brushes roughly over the curve of her jaw until he sucks her earlobe between his lips. He gives a small bite before he releases and whispers something close to her. Anatole wishes he could hear it, because whatever it is is making them both smile. He has seen many things in Athos's expressive eyes this evening, but now Anatole sees happiness and adoration and realises that everything Athos does is in worship of Milady. It takes his breath away and leaves just a little sting of jealousy.

 

Although her gaze is fixed on their guests, Anatole notices that Helene has captured both of Dolokhov's hands, pulling them along with one of her own behind his head. Dolokhov is writhing, grunting and growling under the joint attentions of Athos and Milady, so Anatole suspects his fingers are of little use, still Helene's wrist moves in a familiar movement and brings Dolokhov's hands along with her. Her other arm stretches out to Anatole and he pliantly moves into her reach. The welcome pressure of her fingers twining through his hair and pressing him into a kiss makes him dizzy. He cups her breast and slowly rolls her nipple between finger and thumb, still hotly damp with Dolokhov's saliva. He swallows down the moan she delivers to his mouth, and presses these fingers to Helene's lips for her to lick and coat before taking himself in hand.

As so often happens, the siblings gravitate towards each other. Helene releases Dolokhov's hands and unwinds her legs from his chest in favour of moving over to Anatole.

“I love you so much,” Helene breathes softly, her eyes plaintive and vulnerable. Anatole's grin widens as her expression darkens and she hooks a leg over him. “Now fuck me.”

One of her legs is still trapped beneath Dolokhov as Anatole enters her from behind and she throws herself back into him. Dolokhov stretches an arm to entwine with their legs for a moment as Helene slips from beneath him and finally they are broken free.

 

Now she is all his, Anatole lets his hands roam over Helene's perfect skin and presses his face into her hair to inhale her scent and feel the hum of her moans. He hooks his head over Helene's shoulder and opens his eyes to see that Dolokhov, ever impatient, has given up on lying back and has pushed himself upright. Athos's shoulders are hunched as he pushes deep with what must be his whole hand by now and crushes Dolokhov's face to his with the other. Between them Milady is still riding hard on Dolokhov's cock, her teeth leaving red marks on his neck and shoulders. Her breath starts to hitch and break and Dolokhov's hands disappear up her skirts. Milday's own fingers grasp and dig into Dolokhov's back and Anatole thinks the man will be lucky to escape without a number of incriminating bruises. No doubt he will show them off to anyone who happens to enquire. Milady herself will have to wear a more modest neckline for a few days as Dolokhov is not being gentle with his teeth at her collarbones. Her cries reach a new octave and Anatole is breathless as he thrusts into Helene and watches Milady eased into her comedown by her husband's gentle whispers and Dolokhov's strong torso supporting her collapse forward. Dolokhov hisses as Milady eases off him, the movement accompanied by sharp teeth at the soft spot below his ear. He falls back against the mattress as Milady joins Athos and they both work over Dolokhov's cock with their mouths. Dolokhov grabs a pillow from above his head and has barely pressed it over his face before Milady has moved up, a sly smile crossing her face and pulled it away from him. She replaces the suffocating affect with her lips over his and her hand clasped tightly about his windpipe. Athos thrusts hard with his arm, reaching who knows how far and hard within Dolokhov with his fingers, and his cheeks hollow out around Dolokhov's prick.

Anatole and Helene hold their breath as they watch Dolokhov struggle without air, panic and then blissful resignation on his face. The first wave of his orgasm hits and Milady and Athos release him and he comes in long streaks across his own belly as he sucks down dizzying oxygen in great gulps and gasps. Milady is already back at the chaise reattaching clasps on her dress, but Athos climbs up and kisses Dolokhov deeply, settling his weight over him, keeping him from floating away.

 

Helene clenches around him and Anatole turns her attention back to her.

“Let me see you,” she says and he turns them so she lies beneath him and he can press their foreheads close together and share the air between them as he thrusts into her. He pushes himself up on one arm as she rolls her hips, deepening their contact and making them both gasp and sigh. He works the other arm between them, tracing his fingers over the paleness of her body and the quiver at her stomach, over the harsh dark curls at her crotch, and down to her clit. She moans and writhes under him and everything around them vanishes.

“All we ever needed was each other,” he says as Helene takes her bottom lip between her teeth as she flexes against him and her hands dig into his back and scalp, her fingernails scraping lines of heated sensation through him. As her breath shortens he withdraws his hand and instead pulls her closer to him with a hand at the small of her back. They climax together, sharing panting breaths and open kisses, perspiration glistening on their skin.

 

Anatole pulls the sheets about them, protecting them from the cooling night. As Helene drifts into sleep beside him, Anatole watches Milady collect Athos and Dolokhov from the bed, and hands them their respective clothes. Dolokhov pulls on his underwear and breeches, and buttons them lopsided. His fingertips entwine with Milady's as he trails behind the pair, joining wherever they will go. He moves with a slow and sleepy satisfaction, a wolf who has eaten his fill and wishes for nothing else.

At the doorway Athos shrugs his doublet back over his shoulders. Anatole considers the thick material of Athos's breeches and imagines the man is hard within them. He must be straining, although he walks easily enough. Anatole wonders if Milady will see to it when they're alone, if she'll let Dolokhov join them, or if Athos will be left to take himself in hand. Perhaps it will be nothing.

“Do come again sometime,” Anatole bows his head to his guests as they leave. He turns over to the cold side of the bed and as he hears the door gently close he falls into unconsciousness alone.


End file.
